eyes meeting over the noise
by Lachesis Grimm
Summary: Jemma Simmons is determined to snag Phil Coulson. Or, miracles really do happen at Christmas. Or, that AU in which SHIELD really does plan parties and has nothing to do with international espionage.
1. a voice in the distance

_AN: Title (and chapter titles) taken from Vienna Teng's "The Atheist Christmas Carol."_

 _My thanks to Selmak for encouragement and for what SHIELD might stand for, in the party-planning world._

* * *

Jemma's day ended in her entirely too-small bathroom, picking what seemed to be a million bobby pins out of her hair after removing the wig of cascading blonde curls.

"It had to be bloody Rapunzel," she muttered to herself, sighing with relief as her loosened hair fell around her face, relieving the strain of the too-tight bun. "Bloody, fucking…"

A beer, a reheated bowl of rice and beans with srirache sauce, and then she fell into bed with a whimper.

Another day, another party, another headache from smiling like a loon for hours on end.

What had she gotten those doctorates for, again?

* * *

"Kids do not want chemistry parties," Skye said with a roll of her eyes, doctoring her cup of coffee with the powdered creamer that always tasted faintly of chemicals to Jemma. "They want to be princesses, or to run around pretending to be Howling Commandos, or-"

"Or robots," Jemma groused, thinking of Fitz's excellent luck with the mini-scientist set. "If they would let me do something _interesting_ -"

"Like blow shit up?" Skye smirked. "You know what AC says about that, Jemma. Legal liability! Loss of small appendages! Won't someone think of the children?"

Skye's dramatic spiel was cut off by the entrance of the man himself. Jemma silently cursed the butterflies in her stomach as he smiled at the two of them. Calm and benign and bloody hell, she wanted to climb that man like a tree.

Inappropriate, she reminded herself. Very inappropriate.

"Skye, I need you with me today," he was saying, pouring his own cup of coffee and adding sugar. "Bobbi has the flu and I need a Peggy Carter."

"Me?" Skye raised a brow, skeptical. "What about Miss British herself on the sofa?"

An excellent question. It wasn't as if Jemma had anything on the calendar- and unlike Skye, her paperwork wasn't a week overdue. "I have the accent and everything," she pointed out, feeling absurdly hurt when Coulson shook his head.

"Mack had a family emergency, and Fitz won't work with anyone else." Coulson gave her a shrug and a small smile, the gesture obviously meant to be consoling.

"Silly Fitz," she said lightly, mentally considering the emergency kit in her bag. Recently restocked; she definitely (probably) had enough band-aids and gauze to patch Fitz up post-party. "Age group?"

"College," he said succinctly, and her heart dropped. "Not our target age group, I know, but some parents insist on throwing birthday parties for their babies, regardless of age… or interest level."

Jemma hid her dismay, resigning herself to an afternoon of 'accidental' gropes and grazes. "Perhaps Fitz wouldn't mind Trip…" she said weakly, and received a head shake in return.

"He's with me. Kids love his Gabe Jones."

Skye gave her an utterly sympathetic look after Coulson had left the room. "Fucking frat boys. My ass was black and blue after that terrible event at- at that place I have successfully blocked from my memory."

"Phi Sigma Mu," Jemma replied glumly. "And you get to dress up like Peggy Carter and speak in that atrocious British accent you insist on using-"

" _Hey!_ "

"-while I fight off drunk undergraduates." Jemma's glare held surprisingly little heat. "I hate you."

"I know." Skye tossed back her hair. "Don't worry, I won't flirt ridiculously with AC like you would."

Jemma bobbled her tea, spilling some on the floor. "I do not _flirt_ ," she gasped out.

"No, you don't." Skye nodded solemnly. "But I have the feeling that, in Peggy's heels and excellent hat, you would take advantage of the opportunity."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Jemma said with dignity.

"Come on, Jem. AC has the same fanboy crush on Peggy that he does on Cap. Are you telling me that, given the chance, you wouldn't put on some nice perfume, a bit of red lipstick, and snuggle up to him with an extra button undone on the Carter blouse?" Skye fluttered her eyelashes, and abruptly switched to the British accent she favored. "'Do you want to check my garter belt for period accuracy?'" she asked. Jemma dearly hoped that she had never looked so foolish around Phil Coulson. "'I think my stocking seams are crooked. Would you straighten them?'"

"I really hate you."

"'I spent the weekend researching perfumes of the WWII era and developed my own formula in the lab. Does it make you want to play Super Soldier and British Bombshell? I need to know. For science.'"

"The next time we have a princess party together I'm going to make you wear the mermaid tail."

"'Oh, _Phil!_ '"

Skye fell backward onto the couch in a faux-swoon just as Coulson re-entered the room. Looking wary, as if he suspected a joke were being played on him, he raised a brow. "You called?"

Skye held her pose, her gaze serious. "Sorry, what?"

"My name, Skye. You said my name."

She gave him an utterly clueless stare. "Your name is AC. Do we know a Phil, Jem?"

Jemma gave her a stony gaze, refusing to dignify her question with an answer.

"Right." Coulson shook his head, turning to leave. If Jemma weren't mistaken, she thought she saw a glimmer of… of hurt, perhaps? in his eyes.

"That wasn't kind," she said in a quiet hiss once she was sure he had left.

"Yeah, bad timing on my part." Skye dragged herself up, sighing. "Vintage clothing for me, then. Punch a drunk idiot for me, okay?"

"Exactly what we need: a reputation for violence."

"You know you want to."

Yes, Jemma admitted silently. She really did want to.

* * *

Bobbi and Skye appeared at her door that same evening, each with a six pack of beer in hand. Bobbi also expertly balanced two pizzas on one palm, carrying them with the ease of someone who had spent more than her fair share of time in food service. "I congratulate you on making it through the afternoon with a minimum of bloodshed," Bobbi said cheerfully, walking into Jemma's apartment as if it were her own. Her head barely cleared the threshold of the door, but Bobbi was so accustomed to it she didn't even flinch. Jemma's rent was low precisely because of the hobbit-esque proportions of her small apartment. Cozy, the ad had said. Drafty and not built for Amazons, Jemma contested.

"I nearly bashed someone's head in with a fire extinguisher," Jemma replied, still grumpy, and accepted the beer Skye handed her. "One of them trapped me against the van and started grinding on me, the barbarian. He was lucky that Fitz actually did set something on fire, otherwise he would be in hospital."

"AC should really set an age limit." Skye settled onto the floor next to the coffee table, taking a slice of pizza without bothering with plate or napkin. "College boys should be on our black-list."

"Fury's the one to convince on that score. If he says we do college parties- or that we don't- his word is law." Bobbi nodded her thanks as Jemma set a stack of napkins on the table. "Did you tell him, Jemma? Phil, I mean."

"I mentioned it in my report."

"With greater tact than was necessary, I'm sure." Skye rolled her eyes. "Have another beer, Jem. I think you need it."

Jemma considered her empty schedule for the next day and acquiesced with a shrug.

An hour later, the conversation took a turn that made her regret that choice.

"No, no, no," Skye said with drunken firmness. "I love you, Jems, but you aren't exactly-"

"Fun?" Jemma interrupted, frowning.

"Bad. Bad in a good way, I mean. Prim and proper is your style."

Bobbi snickered, but waved off their inquiring looks.

"I mean, you work your ass off every day," Skye continued. "You could be making the big bucks for Stark Industries or something, but instead you teach homeschooled kids science and spend your odd hours throwing parties with us. The baddest thing you've ever done is buck your parents' expectations."

"I like children," Jemma said with an edge of defensiveness. "I enjoy my work, both parts."

"And you're very good at it." Bobbi kicked Skye lightly in the shin. "Stop baiting her. Not everyone wants to hole up in a lab."

"She could at least do something _fun_ once in awhile." Skye stared at Jemma, a challenging grin on her face. "Come on, Jemma. I know you have a mental wish-list."

Jemma reviewed said list silently, sighing slightly. "It's dreadfully prosaic," she said at last. "A house, flowers, babies."

"With a certain someone," Skye said in a sing-song fashion. "Come on, tell all."

"He's not interested in me," Jemma muttered, blushing. "Barely looks at me at all."

Bobbi looked as if she were going down her own mental list. "Not Fitz. Mack? Idaho?" She frowned. "Not Hunter, right? As his ex-wife I really should warn you off for your own good."

"None of the above."

"Well, whoever it is, you should go for it." Bobbi waggled her brows in exaggerated fashion. "Hit him with a fire extinguisher and drag him back to your cave. Be the bad girl Skye keeps insisting you become."

Jemma felt a sudden rush of excitement. "No," she said nonetheless. "I couldn't."

It came out more like a question, and Skye pounced on the opening. "Yes, you totally could. Release your inner sex kitten!"

She paused, mouth open slightly. "Can't believe I just said that," she said finally. "You're less sex kitten, more…"

"More kitten." Bobbi ducked the pillow Jemma threw at her head. "One with sharp claws, but-"

"I could seduce someone if I put my mind to it," Jemma said with affronted dignity. "American men love an accent."

"Prove it."

Skye's dare hung in the air for a long moment. Finally Jemma raised her beer, feeling a surge of Dutch courage course through her veins. "I," she said with drunk portentousness, "am going to seduce Phil Coulson."

Skye burst into laughter, but Bobbi's mouth dropped open in shock. "What?!"

"Why not?" Jemma's gesture went a bit too wide, splattering beer on the floor. "I want to nail that man to a mattress."

"Pretty sure it generally goes the other way around," Skye said with a slight hiccup. "Also, he's-"

" _Mature_ ," Jemma said firmly, remembering with a shudder the frat party. "And kind. And I've seen him dance; he knows what he's doing with his hips."

"And not someone to toy with." Bobbi's rejoinder was flat, and Jemma remembered belatedly that Bobbi and Phil had a kind of friendly, almost father-daughter-esque relationship. "It would be cruel to play that kind of game with him."

Jemma flushed, dipping her head so that her hair fell in front of her face. A game. Jemma wasn't the kind of person to play games like that, but…

"This isn't some one night fuck," she heard Skye hiss, and felt her own blush deepen. "Jem's had it bad for… like, a year."

There was a weighted silence, as if Bobbi were considering that. "How bad?" she asked finally.

Jemma squirmed in her seat, regretting her alcohol-induced confession. "He would be such a good husband and father," she said after a long moment, drooping in her seat. "He would be so- so- so _caring_. And he's obviously creative," she continued nervously, the words spilling out. "Remember the party on Long Island? Any man who could pull that off could do anything, including finding my clit."

Skye snorted ungracefully, coughing as beer bubbled up into her sinuses. "Holding a grudge, Jem?"

"When was the last time you slept with someone who could make you come with any regularity?" Jemma shot back.

"Trip," Skye said calmly, wiping her nose with a napkin. "But, yeah, before that- a rare occurrence."

Bobbi slumped back against the couch, rolling her eyes. "You do have it bad," she said with a sigh. "Well, hell."

"I'm no heartbreaker, Bobbi. In any kind of way." Jemma picked at the label on her beer, shredding the damp paper. "House and flowers and babies, remember?"

"Well, you definitely picked the house and flowers and babies type." Bobbi flung an arm over her eyes. "I need another drink to deal with this."

"Is it such a terrible idea?"

"No." Bobbi sat up, taking a beer from Skye. "No. But it will require some planning." She gave Jemma a look that was suddenly conspiratorial and amused. "And some creative scheduling."

"And some cleavage," Skye added, grinning as Jemma smacked her with a pillow. "And possibly some seamed stockings."

Bloody hell, what had she started?

* * *

She was still asking herself the same question two days later, as she considered her reflection. She did have excellent cleavage, she admitted to herself. The bra helped.

And yet- despite the fact that more than one member of their crew snuck glances at her newly uncovered bosom during the weekly meeting, Phil Coulson was not one of them. No, he kept his eyes firmly on her face, when he looked at her at all, and that was annoying and a bit distressing.

"He is such a gentleman," she said to Skye and Bobbi in grim tones after the meeting. "This is a problem."

"That took some serious strength of will on his part." Skye's eyes dipped down to stare at Jemma's breasts. "Even I can't stop looking at them, and I am definitely not the intended audience."

"Maybe a bit too much?" Jemma stared down at her cleavage, frowning. "I told you the push-up bra was unnecessary, Skye."

"Maybe a bit too much for work," Skye acknowledged. "Okay, we need to rethink our strategy. Bobbi, you know the guy."

"Not like _that_."

"No, not like that, but you actually socialize with him. What does the man find sexy; you must have a read."

"Subtlety," a voice said dryly from the door, and Jemma felt as if actual ice were running through her veins. She turned to meet May's eyes. "A bit of mystery," the woman continued, stepping forward to walk around Jemma, eyeing her closely. "This display is rather blatant for his tastes."

Jemma blushed so deeply that it was almost painful, and tugged up the neckline of her sweater. "Please don't tell him, May."

"Why would I tell him? I'm tired of watching you pine." May handed the bag she carried to Bobbi. "Fairy lights for the Wilson party," she said as an aside. "I would take them, but I think I'm feeling under the weather."

They stared at May, the picture of health, and she simply raised a brow in return.

"You do look… tired?" Skye said, hazarding a guess.

"I think it's the flu," May said in a deadpan voice, and left the room with no further comment.

They exchanged looks, all uncertain what this meant. "What kind of party are we doing for the Wilsons?" Skye asked finally, pulling out her schedule. "Not Howling Commandos, not princesses…"

"Tea party," Jemma interjected, spotting the item on her schedule. "He's so good with those."

"Stop sighing." Bobbi shoved the bag of lights into her hands. "I can practically see your ovaries exploding, Simmons. Come on; we need to find something in Wardrobe that screams 'Austen in the streets, Bronte in the sheets'."

Jemma felt herself perk up a bit at that. "Do you think so?"

"We at least have to find something less revealing. That impressive rack of yours will not fly at your average tea party."

"No, I suppose not."

* * *

Clad in a sundress, prim cardigan, and kitten heels, Jemma threw herself into decorating for what she swore would be the best damn tea party ever hosted by SHIELD, Inc.

 _Successfully Happy Interactive Events - Legendary Defined_ , she thought for the millionth time, shaking her head as she looped the fairy lights around a tree branch. So much easier to just call the company SHIELD.

"Need any help?"

She looked down from her admittedly precarious perch on the stepladder, aiming her brightest smile at the object of her desires. "No, almost done."

"You've done a great job," he said, examining the yard with an approving eye. "May doesn't really do whimsy, when it comes to decorating." He stepped forward as she started to descend. "Let me help."

Instead of offering a hand, he grasped her waist and lifted her down to the ground in a move that had her heart fluttering for very unprofessional reasons. "We'd hate to lose you to a fall, Jemma," he said with a grin.

"It would be quite a blow to your worker's comp insurance," she joked, feeling her cheeks pinken.

And it was… it was _easy_ , after that. For the course of the afternoon they were partners, gently wrangling curious five-year olds and pouring sweetened tea for stuffed bears, leading games of hide and seek and tying loosened shoelaces. She looked over over at him once as she cut slices of strawberry cake, catching the moment when the birthday girl officiously placed a heavily beribboned hat on his head. The very dignified thank-you she received in return nearly had Jemma in a swoon.

"That was a good one, don't you think?" he said to her later as they loaded the van, either ignoring or oblivious to the tea-stain on one leg of his trousers. "No fighting, no tears. Twelve happy participants."

And two pleased parents, who had slipped Jemma a tip that would cover her utilities for the month. "Smooth like silk," she agreed. "And may I say, sir, that you looked very well in that hat."

"Not everyone can carry off a hat like that," he replied jokingly, and plucked a fascinator with a short veil from a box. "I think this might be more your style, though."

She held still as he carefully secured the fascinator to her hair with the small comb, and pulled the smoky veil over her eyes. There was suddenly an odd look on his face, as if he were seeing her anew. "Very film noir," he said after a long moment. "It suits you, Jemma."

"Well," she said, feeling a bit breathless. "Next time you need a dame, you know who to call."

It was back to congenial joking after that, but the moment had meant something, right? She certainly hoped it had meant something. A spark of interest on his part, at the very least.

Still, it was just day one. She couldn't expect to tumble him into bed that quickly.

* * *

They became friends, of a sort. At first it was just an increase of smiles in her direction, as well as a small but obvious bump in the number of events she worked with him. More tea parties and the odd theme party, mostly, though never an opportunity for her to use her best Peggy Carter impression. A pity, really, because Jemma knew for a fact that she wore that particular costume very well, and she had a pair of seamed stockings stashed away for just such an occasion.

Not that she would really ask him to straighten her seams.

Probably.

As summer turned to fall, though, something new happened: he began searching her out. Jemma would be grading papers in the break room, or working on her own research, and suddenly he would be at the door, two mugs in his hands and a smile on his face. Coffee for him, tea for her, and they would spend a very pleasant ten minutes discussing work or the local philharmonic or their mutual obsession with _Hamilton_.

Then it was the occasional lunch, or- rarely- a late dinner after the end of an event, both of them tired and inevitably laughing overly hard at something that had happened at the party. Once, just once, he had driven her home and walked her to her door. In the wavering light of the hall he had reached out and stroked a hand over her hair… and then pulled his hand back, showing her the clump of icing that had been hiding in her curls.

She still found it more romantic than she wanted to admit.

"I think he has the hots for you," Skye said one morning in late November, after they had left their last pre-Thanksgiving team meeting. "There was eye contact in there. More than five seconds worth."

Jemma was in a particularly bad mood that day, and merely sighed in response. Fitz had bounded up to her that morning, full of enthusiasm, and had sworn her to secrecy before pulling out the ring he planned to surprise Mack with over the weekend. She was thrilled for him, of course, but there was a part of her- a small, jealous part of her- that was intensely irritated by the number of happy couples that she was surrounded by.

Well, just the two couples, really. Three, if she counted May and Andrew, but May was so reserved that Jemma occasionally forgot that she had a husband.

"At this rate, you are definitely five short years from making sweet, sweet love with our beloved supervisor," Skye continued. "Slow but steady wins the race, right?"

Jemma made herself a mental note to pick up extra batteries for her vibrator.


	2. cold making warmth a divine intervention

December was shit. There were the usual bills: rent, utilities, her student loans. Groceries, which seemed to cost more every month. The copays for her annual physical and eye exam, which stretched an already thin budget. The last gifts for everyone on her list.

By the time her parents called on Christmas Eve (for the dozenth time, by her calculations) to sigh over the fact that she wouldn't be coming home for the holidays, Jemma had fifty dollars in the bank and a week until her next paycheck. A SHIELD paycheck, which was always a bit heartier than the one she received from the local homeschool collective. That one wouldn't arrive until the end of January.

"You love your life," she reminded herself after the call had ended. She lay on her bed, one arm over her eyes. "You chose this life."

Admittedly, Jemma was having trouble remembering why she had chosen this particular path. She did enjoy the teaching, and she did enjoy working the various parties… but she could have taught at some endowed private academy. She could have worked for Stark or some other privately funded lab, and volunteered in her off-hours. What was she doing in this drafty apartment, again?

She dropped her arm back to her side, sighing. "The sleazy recruiter from Stark's company," she reminded herself. "The one who kept staring at my breasts. And…"

Jemma paused, rolling onto her side to curl into a fetal position. And her parents.

Her parents, who had spent quite a bit of money on her early education. Her parents, who had forwarded her an itemized statement of said education once she had earned her first doctorate.

Her parents, who clearly saw her as their retirement plan. They didn't even bother pretending, at this point. Her continued impoverished state was a bone of contention during every phone call.

At least she had a few days of solitude. She had food in her cabinets, a drinkable bottle of wine, several interesting books from the library and a stack of blu-rays, courtesy of Skye. And-

A clunk, a mournful metal sigh.

Jemma sat up, unnerved by the sudden lack of ambient noise in her apartment. Something was missing. Something like…

Heat.

Bloody hell.

* * *

Three hours and two sweaters later, Jemma had come to the conclusion that she was fucked. Her landlord was refusing to answer her calls, the cheap bastard that he was. All of her friends were out of town (and she was here why, again? Some kind of martyr-complex, apparently). Her neighbors were either also visiting loved ones, or drunk, or somehow still had heat. She was alone in her misery.

Jemma hunkered down with a nest of blankets, spiked hot cocoa, and a sudden fierce determination that the first thing she would do when she saw Fitz again would be to wrest a spare key from him.

* * *

It was a knock to the door that woke her on Christmas morning, forcing her to unearth herself from a mountain of blankets and dash across the cold floor. Jemma could only imagine that someone had the wrong apartment. Surely no one was searching for her on this bleak, incredibly cold morning, not-

But she opened the door, and there Phil Coulson stood, an insulated mug in one hand and a bag in the other, looking uncharacteristically irritated. "Please tell me the lack of heat only extends to the hall," he said, an actual scowl on his face.

She blinked, suddenly aware that she was wearing fleece jim-jams, three sweaters, and two pairs of socks. "So it isn't just me," she said, aware of how foolish that sounded, but in her uncaffeinated state she couldn't quite figure out why her supervisor and unrequited crush was standing at her weathered door on Christmas morning.

"You definitely aren't the only person freezing their ass off," he replied dryly, his scowl disappearing. "When did the heat stop working?"

"Last night." She shrugged, aware the movement was probably hidden by her sweater bulk. "My landlord is out of pocket."

He raised a brow. "Not providing heat in these conditions is illegal in this state."

In response she merely glanced up and around at the obviously well-worn walls and ceilings. "The rent is cheap," she said, allowing her own annoyance to seep into the phrase.

He gave her an odd look. "Still illegal."

"My landlord doesn't live here," she replied, feeling rather annoyed. "In order to track him down-"

"Point taken." He thrust the mug and bag toward her as he stepped forward. "Pack a bag. Do you like ham? That's what I was planning to make for dinner."

She accepted the items in her cold hands even as she retreated, allowing him entry. "What?"

"Jemma, I can't just leave you here." He shifted, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "I knew you were staying in the country, but I thought you would be off with Fitz or Skye…"

Jemma glanced down at the items in her hands. Tea, she was fairly sure, and the bag was from her favorite bakery. "You came anyway.'

"Just in case." He shrugged when she met his eyes. "I have a spare room. I would be honored to have you as a guest."

Well, she couldn't exactly refuse, could she? Jemma had the distinct impression that even if she said no (and why would she?), he would find a reason to toss her over his shoulder and carry her off anyway.

She liked that idea a lot, actually.

 _Focus_ , she ordered herself sternly.

"You're sure?" she asked anxiously, out of sheer politeness more than anything else. "You don't have to- I mean, I am very quiet, you would never know that I'm there, you don't even have to feed me-"

"Jemma."

She stopped, reminded anew of the weight of the items in her hands as she took in his serious expression.

"Keep me company?" he asked, a surprisingly shy look on his face. "We're both alone, and I have heat, and I would love to cook dinner for you."

There was no choice, not really. "I would love to." She took a few steps away, toward her bedroom, before stopping in her tracks. "Please, make yourself at home… as much as possible, given the circumstances."

Moments later she was in her bedroom, the door cracked open a mere inch. She took a sip from the mug, repressing her hum of pleasure when she tasted perfect, milky tea. In the paper bag was a donut filled with raspberry jam. She devoured the confection in a matter of seconds.

Into an overnight bag went a change of clothes, her toiletries, another pair of pajamas. In a feat of daring she shimmied out of her layers and into the barely heated water of the shower, washing her hair and scrubbing herself down with what was probably futile hope. Once dry she pulled on her best matched set of underwear- only matched set, really- but skipped the primping stage in favor of dressing in jeans and her favorite sweater.

"Ready," she told him breathlessly, purse and overnight bag slung over one shoulder. Her hair still lay damp against her shoulders, and he quirked a grin as he pulled his own hat off his head.

"Can't have you getting a cold, Jemma," he said gently, tugging the cap down around her ears and tucking her damp hair beneath the brim. "I need my Peggy in good health."

"You never let me play Peggy," she reminded him with a smile. "Am I getting a promotion?"

"If you call that a promotion, then I suppose you are. But no talking of business today," he continued, waiting while she locked her door. "We're on holiday. What's your pleasure? Movies? Board games? A glass of wine and a nap in front of a fireplace?"

"Would 'all of the above' be a valid choice?" she asked as they stepped outside into swirling snow. "Because all of those options sound excellent."

He held the car door open for her, taking her overnight bag. "Then so it shall be."

* * *

Jemma had been at Phil's home several times before, always for some kind of team meeting. He liked to feed them: pizzas once, a massive pot of spaghetti and marinara she still dreamed about another. Always homemade, because he was just that type of man.

He escorted her to a pristine guest room, and by the time she emerged (hair somewhat resurrected from the combination of being tucked up, damp, beneath a hat), a fire was lit in the living room fireplace, a regal calico cat stretched out on the rug before the flames. The cat- Sif- did not acknowledge her presence.

Phil handed her a frothy mimosa with a slight grin. "There is also tea, if you prefer."

"When else will I have a chance to have a cocktail before noon?" she replied, deciding not to mention the time or three that Skye had served her bloody marys at eight in the morning under the pretense of 'hair of the dog'. "Thank you, this is lovely."

"I only have mimosas on Christmas." He clinked the edge of his glass lightly against hers. "Family tradition. I'm swearing you to secrecy; I can't have this affecting my very serious reputation."

"My lips are sealed."

He fed her homemade cinnamon rolls, bacon, and several more mimosas before leading her to the couch and seating her with just enough aplomb that she suspected that- like her- he was slightly tipsy. "I have a few dinner preparations to make," he said, gesturing toward the shelves across the room. "Pick a movie. Or nap."

"You don't want any help?" she asked, her hand still loosely in his.

"I did most of the prep before I came to see you," he admitted. "Sif woke me around five am- no use sleeping after that. I just have a few things to do, then I'll be back."

Jemma watched him leave, still slightly stunned that she was here instead of her cold, lonely apartment. Sif lifted her head and caught her eye, and after a second yawned, showing an impressive array of teeth. She settled back before the fireplace, twisting to reveal a very fluffy belly.

Jemma rather envied that kind of confidence. Still, Sif had a point. The fire was lovely, and the couch was so very, very soft.

 _Just a minute,_ she told herself, tucking her feet up onto the couch and wriggling into the cushions. _Only a few minutes._

* * *

She woke to find a soft blanket and a cat atop her. The latter dashed away the moment Jemma shifted.

"Sif prefers to give affection to people who are safely horizontal," Phil said dryly, sitting in an armchair close by. "Less of a chance that someone will attack-cuddle her."

"Hence why she wakes you up at five am," Jemma said with a yawn. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon." He tipped his head toward the windows, where the curtains were open to reveal a heavy fall of snow. "I'm glad I came for you when I did. I'm not sure the roads are passable anymore."

She considered what it would have been like to eek out this long, cold day in her apartment and shuddered. "I'm glad you came."

There was a moment of silence. "I wish you had called," he said eventually. It wasn't said in disappointment, or as a rebuke, but she still blushed.

"Perhaps I should have."

For all that he was often in her thoughts, he hadn't been someone she had considered when her furnace bid adieu. Partially because she thought he was out of town- with family, or at May's, or… somewhere- and partially because she hadn't wanted to seem a pest.

Admittedly, now that she was warm and well-fed, she didn't quite see the logic in the latter. The man liked feeding people. Who was she to deny him?

"Thank you."

He looked up from his book, a somewhat startled expression on his face. "If Skye or Fitz had been in town, they probably would have beat me to your door," he said with a slight wave of his hand. "Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm fine." She slipped out from under the blanket, running a hand over her rumpled hair. "Do you have other traditions?" she asked hesitantly. "Things you like to do at Christmas?"

"There are a few movies I like. My family used to play games, most days." He set aside his book, gazing at her with a look that was almost fond. "What about you, Jemma?"

She froze for the briefest of seconds, still in the act of trying to smooth her disordered hair. "Oh, we had very quiet Christmases," she said in as nonchalant a tone as she could muster. "We were never much for… frivolity."

Not in her case, anyway. It had been study, study, study… which was usually a joy, except for when holidays had rolled around and her siblings had been allowed to play with toys while she had been stuck with her books.

 _You're our treasure, Jemma,_ her mother had always said. Even from an early age Jemma had understood she meant the phrase in terms of pounds and pence.

"Would you mind a day of frivolity?" he asked, both looking and sounding lighter than she had ever seen him. "I promise, you won't need to make bail."

She gave a startled laugh at that. "I trust you, sir."

"Phil."

Jemma blinked, blushed. "Phil."

"Then come on, pull on your coat and mittens." He grabbed her by the hand, tugging her toward the foyer. She wasn't entirely sure where this burst of boyish energy had come from, but she liked it. "Never had a snowball fight on Christmas, have you?"

"No, I can't say I have," she replied, grinning. "Are you trying to make up for twenty-odd years of frivolity-free Christmases in one go?"

"A start, anyway." He dropped her hand to pull on his own coat. "Might take a few years."

He had probably meant that in a very innocent way, but she found the thought warming nonetheless. "I don't think I have mittens," she said after a moment, searching her coat pockets even though she knew for a fact they were empty.

"Not a problem." He handed her a over-large pair of mittens and tugged the same cap from before over her hair. "We don't pay you that badly, do we?" he asked, averting his eyes in a manner that made her suspect he was trying to save her pride. "I know parties aren't the most lucrative business, but…"

But rent, and utilities in the Boston chill, and she paid all of her taxes scrupulously every year. SHIELD was relatively uncomplicated, tax-wise, but her freelance tutoring work was taxed quite heavily.

And, of course, occasionally she fell prey to her parents' disapproval and/or emotional blackmail. She was only human, after all, and had made several expensive mistakes over the years.

"Oh, they're in my other coat," she replied lightly. "Silly me."

Judging by his far-too-knowledgeable look, he was well aware that she only owned the one coat. "Take a scarf, too," he said instead, looping the wool fabric around her neck even as he spoke. "The last time I had to nurse someone through a cold they accused me of being an overbearing tyrant."

"Terrible fate," she joked. "Did you funnel chicken soup down their throat?"

"Yes. I also foisted hot toddies on them at random intervals."

"You monster."

"Tyrant," he reminded her, adjusting the hat on her head. "I'm sorry, by the way."

"For what?"

His expression was so serious she momentarily felt worried. "For my aim," he told her, sober as a judge. "It's very good."

She laughed as she followed him out the door into the falling snow. "So that's why I'm here. A handy victim."

"Tyrant and cruel bastard, that's me."

The swift snowball that splattered across the front of her coat made her shriek, and she fled across the yard toward the trees, still laughing. Ducking behind a handy bush she watched as he stalked her across the yard, taking his time and- she suspected- making himself more of a target than he necessarily needed to be. Packing several snowballs of her own, she smirked as she considered angles and weight and density. He might have aim, but she had a very advanced knowledge of physics and mathematics.

Might not be enough to win, she acknowledged practically, but even losing she would be having a hell of a time.

* * *

"I still cannot believe," he said with mock-effrontery as he arranged their various snow-caked items in a bathroom to dry, "that you would dare hit me in the ass with a snowball."

She blinked, projecting complete innocence. "Accident."

"I'll bet." Leaving his boots and socks behind, he padded on bare feet to meet her in the hall, eyeing her damp jeans. "You brought another change of clothing, right?"

"Ah." She looked down at herself, feeling the chill of her wet socks. "Not another pair of jeans. Oversight. I'll be fine."

Not an oversight. They were her best pair; of the others one had an unfortunate hole beneath a back pocket, one was splattered with paint, and the last was irretrievably stretched out of shape.

Vanity would be her undoing, obviously.

"Well, I have a pair of fleece bottoms," she amended when he frowned. "It isn't as if this were a formal event."

"Frivolity and formal definitely don't mix, in this situation," he said, his frown easing into a smile. "Go change. Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Either would be lovely, thank you."

His fingers landed lightly on her wrist as she began to turn, arresting her movement. "You don't make many demands, do you, Jemma?" he asked softly.

"Oh, I'm very easy to please," she responded in an equally soft tone.

He dropped his hand, studying her for a long moment. "I think you might be lying, just a bit."

She felt her eyes widen, and blinked furiously for a few seconds. "I'm very polite."

"Oh, I know." He stood there in the hall, hands in his pockets. "Tea, or hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate," she said after a few seconds, and turned on her heel to seek her quiet room.

Jemma didn't allow herself to think on it as she exchanged her jeans and socks for dry pajama bottoms and wool socks. Demands were… well, she just didn't make demands. It wasn't something she did.

Still, it was nice- very nice- to walk into the kitchen and be handed a mug of thick, richly scented hot chocolate. The real thing, thick with cream and veined with rapidly melting marshmallows. She stared down at the fluffy white squares, brows raised. "Artisan marshmallows?" she asked him with amusement, and he shrugged.

"Christmas," was his response.

"Do you also do an advent calendar?" she asked with a teasing grin.

"The chocolate kind."

"I expected that was the case."

"How about a movie?" he asked, raising a brow in concert. "We've got a few hours before I start messing with dinner again. I'm sure you'll be impressed by my wide range of Christmas films."

She followed him into the living room, unable to stop smiling. "The silliest, please."

"Mystery Science Theater it is, then."

* * *

Despite his claim that frivolity and formal didn't mix, the table was set with china, crystal and lit candles for dinner. "I'm glad I brought my best pajama bottoms," she told him with mock-seriousness. "Only the best for this grand affair."

"I hate leaving the good china to gather dust. Such a waste." He poured her a glass of wine, the rich crimson accentuating the faceted glass of the goblet. "We-"

He paused. "When Audrey was alive we only brought the good things out for special days," he finally said. "She loved our wedding china, and always said we should find more occasions to use it."

Jemma considered the table with this new information. "You use them every day now, don't you?" she asked, a bittersweet feeling in her chest. Six years a widower and still so devoted. The evidence made her feel almost as if her intentions made her an intruder.

"I do. The candles, though- I don't eat by candlelight every night." He was smiling, despite the topic. "Too dangerous, with Sif around."

They both looked toward the other end of the table, where Sif stared at them from one of the spare chairs. "I thought it was the ham that was luring her," Jemma said.

"It's both. She'll creep across the table eventually, and then she'll try to distract us."

"By setting the house afire?"

"You have to admit that a fire would be distracting."

"We'll have to be on our guard, then." Jemma carefully spread her napkin across her lap, looking at her full plate with pleasure. "The meal looks amazing. You are very good in the kitchen, Phil."

"I used to be terrible," he admitted. "I finally decided to take a few classes-"

"A few?" she asked with a quirked brow.

"About a year's worth of classes," he amended with a smile. "But it was worth it."

"I agree."

Sif eased slowly over the edge of the table, blinking at them when they glanced toward her.

"Where did you find such a cat?" Jemma asked after a few bites. "She's lovely."

"She found me. Woke me up in the middle of the night a few years ago caterwauling outside my window." He grinned at the memory. "It was pitch-black and snowing heavily outside, but I still grabbed a flashlight and went in search of whatever was pitching a fit. Instead of finding a full-grown cat I found a shivering ball of fluff." He cast a fond look at Sif. "I brought her in, took her to the vet. She never left."

Sif crept forward several inches, her fluffy tail twitching.

"She is, however, completely incorrigible," he continued, standing and plucking her from the table. "I'll put her in the laundry room while we eat."

Dinner was a calm affair once the feline threat was removed. They talked of his time in college, her graduate school work, some of the more ridiculous parties they had hosted. Whether it was the wine or some new ease, conversation flowed.

It was after the meal when their talk became less light-hearted, when they were once more in the living room in front of the fire. Sif had been freed from her imprisonment, and after being fed several slivers of ham was showing signs of begrudging forgiveness. Jemma lost track of the time as they continued to talk, finishing the bottle of wine and starting a second.

"What was it like, growing up in England?" he asked her, and the question was innocent enough. They had just been discussing his own childhood, after all. "You weren't in London, if I recall correctly."

She turned her wineglass in her hands, cupping the bowl between her palms and staring down into the rich, crimson liquid. Better wine than she'd had in- well, in a very long time, if ever. "I grew up in the country," she said finally, the alcohol loosening her tongue. "Two sisters, one brother. My parents still live in a the same house. It was small, with four children, but they opted not to move. My tutors were very expensive." She smiled humorlessly. "Very specialized. My parents set aside every spare pound for my education. It was a sacrifice."

"For everyone, I'm sure."

His calm, gentle voice encouraged her onward. "I'm a disappointment, really," she said softly. "They expected great things of me, and I'm-"

She stopped, flustered by what she had nearly said. "Well, not winning Nobel prizes," she said finally.

"But you won several academic prizes, as a grad student and post-grad."

She lifted her head, staring at him. She was surprised he knew that- and yet, at the same time she wasn't. "Yes."

"Very prestigious ones."

"Yes."

He held her gaze, and she resisted the urge to look away and admit some kind of defeat. "I gave them the money," she said flatly. "All of it."

"You're a better daughter than most, Jemma Simmons," he said quietly, appearing absolutely earnest. "It was a lot of money, wasn't it?"

"Less than they spent on me," she replied carefully.

He seemed to sense that she had reached her limit on confessions for the night. He kept quiet, instead reaching out to scratch gently beneath Sif's chin when she sauntered by.

"Why did you leave the corporate division?" she asked after a few minutes, curiosity warring with her better sense. "Everyone said you were in line for the vice-presidency, but…"

"But instead I'm throwing tea parties?" he finished with a gentle smile. "I know. It was an odd career move." He examined his own wine for a long moment before shrugging. "New York lost its thrill after Audrey died. The apartment was filled with too many memories."

She cast her eyes down, ashamed of her own question. Of course it had been his wife- what other reason could there have been?

"She was always on me to cut back my hours. Unfortunately, I didn't take her advice until it was too late." He glanced around the room, somehow still smiling, even if the smile was sad. "I like this house. I like making people happy. It's enough."

Jemma felt the sting of incoming tears, and blinked rapidly in an attempt to forestall them. "You are very good at your job."

"So are you."

"I like children." She shrugged, and then took another sip of wine. "They're uncomplicated. Their joy is untarnished. I like…"

Jemma paused, taking in a breath. "I like having permission to be carefree," she admitted, surprised that she still had a few confessions to make. "My siblings were allowed to play. I wasn't."

"Sort of the same reason I like the parties. All that time I spent in the office… and Aud and I tried to have kids, but they just never came." He leveled a perceptive look at her. "You should stay another day. The snow will last long enough for another fight, and I doubt your landlord will get around to fixing the heat anytime soon."

"It could be after the New Year," she agreed. "Depends on how many people complain over the next few days."

He was quiet for a moment, sipping leisurely at his wine. Sif jumped up onto the couch and lay across her feet, her eyes daring Jemma to shift even a centimeter.

"Obviously I don't know your parents," he said finally. "And you are brilliant, Jemma. Probably more than I know. But I wish you had been allowed to play."

"Me, too."

She snuggled back into the couch cushions, careful not to disturb Sif. With the wine turning her mind fuzzy, and the fire crackling in the hearth, she felt surprisingly content. This was probably her favorite Christmas to date, even with all the little secrets she had spilled.

He stood some twenty minutes later, stretching with a sigh. "I think I'm done for the day, Jemma."

She finished her wine as he banked the fire, reluctantly drawing her feet from beneath Sif when he turned to face her. "Sleep does sound lovely." She took a step forward, catching Sif's indignant huff. "Thank you for a wonderful Christmas, Phil."

He took her wineglass, and she followed him into the kitchen, not quite ready to walk away. "This is the first Christmas I've spent with someone else in several years," he told her, rinsing out both of their glasses and leaving them beside the sink. "I had forgotten how much I like company."

He shot her a grin as they walked toward the hall. "Good company," he amended, stopping at the threshold. "There is a difference."

She had her gaze lifted to meet his, and caught a glimpse of something else above them.

"Mistletoe?" she asked with an arched brow.

He looked up, a faint blush on his face. "Tradition," he explained. "At the time, I didn't think I'd be kissing anyone other than Sif."

Jemma took a breath and threw good sense to the wind. "Perhaps she'll let me take one in her stead?"

Jemma didn't wait for an answer. Lifting herself on her toes, she slanted her mouth over his, using the dubious permission that was tradition to claim the only kiss she was likely to get from him.

For a long moment he was still against her. Just as she was about to draw away, disheartened but grateful, his arms came around her, hands pressed against her back, the kiss turning from a one-sided affair to a much more pleasurable joint effort. He was every bit as good a kisser as she had suspected, a discovery that had her toes curling inside her thick socks.

He was the one to draw back first, his gaze thoughtful and his arms still loose around her. "Was it the wine, Jemma?"

"Only in the sense it gave me the courage to do something I've been wanting to do for a while now," she admitted.

"I had wondered," he replied in an almost musing fashion. "But I thought I was reading too much into your kindness."

"Too little, probably."

"And here I thought I was being foolishly hopeful."

She gave him a startled look at that, and he gave her an embarrassed smile. "You were… hopeful?"

"A beautiful young woman gives me the time of day and laughs at my jokes? Of course I was hopeful. Still," he said reluctantly, "perhaps we could discuss this further when sober." He flashed a crooked grin. "I'm not quite as handsome sober."

"But we will have a discussion? Preferably within the next five years?" she asked hopefully, reaching up a hand to stroke her fingertips along his jawline. "If we don't suit, I'll leave SHIELD. My parents would be thrilled if I finally took up St-"

She froze, and he raised a brow. "Stark Industries? I'm not surprised, Jemma."

"Well, yes." She ran her fingertips along his jaw again, enjoying the prickle of his stubble. "I'll leave you with the parties. They make you happy. I _do_ want you to be happy, Phil."

His expression turned bittersweet, and she knew he was taking that admission in light of their conversation. "Romantic fool that I am, I believe you." He leaned toward her, brushing a brief kiss against her lips. "So now I will escort you to your door, and leave you to your solitary rest."

And he did just that, drawing her arm through the crook of his elbow as if he were strolling with her down a Parisian street and not the hall of his home. Sif trailed them, sitting a few feet away and watching them with suspicious eyes. "I hope you sleep well," he said.

She considered saying something flirtatious, but instead kissed his cheek and stepped through her door. "The same to you, Phil."


	3. hope is currency

Jemma woke to the smell of bacon. An excellent alarm clock, as far as she was concerned, and she bounced out of bed, both eager and nervous as she considered how the morning might go. She hesitated for a moment, considering whether to shower and dress or to simply proceed onward in her pajamas.

The sudden waft of cinnamon made up her mind. Pajamas it was, though she would brush her teeth in a nod to civility.

Luckily, he was also still in decidedly casual wear. "I thought you might show up soon," he said, keeping his gaze toward the stove. "I have some water heating in the kettle, and-"

She laid a hand on his cheek at that moment, turning his face so that she could press a light kiss against his lips.

He looked a bit dazed when she pulled away. "So we are having that talk?"

"Unless it makes you very uncomfortable," she replied, her heart sinking.

His mouth was pressed against hers before her hopes could completely disappear. "It's a good talk," he murmured, laying a hand gently against the curve of her waist. "Let me finish breakfast."

Once the table was set with bacon and pancakes, she found herself glancing nervously at him under her lashes. Should she speak now? Should she wait until they had eaten?

"I'll be straight with you," he said calmly, using his fork to cut into his pancakes. "I'm not interested in a casual fling." He ate the small triangle of pancakes, three deep, his steadiness almost appearing feigned. "It's not my age, Jemma. I'm just not built for short-term relationships." He quirked a grin in her direction. "Did I ever tell you that my mother wrote romance novels in her spare time? I picked up more than a few preferences concerning the romance of marriage from her."

Jemma considered him carefully. "I've had a few relationships," she said truthfully. "Short ones. They ran when they realized how clingy I was." She stopped, looking away with a blush. "That makes me sound like I need therapy."

"Some people prefer monogamy. Some don't," he said with a shrug. "Life is a rich tapestry."

She kept her gaze averted, looking down at her pancakes drenched in maple syrup. "As foolish as it sounds, I kept hoping someone would love me enough to… to stay."

"Without conditions?"

She flinched without meaning to. A hand closed over hers on the table, and she glanced up to see him watching her with understanding. "I think all parents go wrong, in some way," he said quietly. "It's simply a question of how off the path they go, despite their good intentions. I can't help but feel that your parents might have failed you, Jemma."

Odd how so understanding a sentence made her feel as if she had lost. "Hardly a viable romantic partner," she agreed with a feigned bright smile. "We should find you someone like May. If you're ready."

His expression turned slightly odd at that. "Jemma, that wasn't a dismissal."

"Are you sure? I am clingy," she warned. "I won't demand attention twenty-four/seven, but I also won't be ignored, Phil. I like- I _want_ to be romanced."

"I like romancing," he replied easily. "And if your previous partners only gave you the occasional bits of attention, I think you were right to toss them aside."

Her lips curved upward despite herself. "You are sober, right?" she asked, only half-teasing.

"Very," he assured her. "I'm assuming you are, as well," he added in an equally teasing manner. "I trust I'm not too handsome."

"I confess that I've always found you handsome," she admitted quietly. "And I'm quite sober."

To her relief, he didn't suggest that she get her vision checked.

"You are a flatterer, Jemma Simmons," he said instead.

"Oh no," she replied, feeling pleasantly nervous over the whole discussion. "I am quite honest, Phil."

His hand still lay over hers, and he stroked her fingers deftly for a span of too-few seconds. "I'm not going to kiss you again," he said slowly, in careful, measured tones, "until the _next_ time you spend the night."

She sucked in a breath, shocked in the best way. "I can't decide if that's a challenge or a promise."

"Both."

"I could go home today and come back tomorrow," she offered futilely, and he gave her a look that clearly told her that though tempted, he wouldn't be taking her up on that offer.

"You go home when you have heat. Speaking of," he continued, suddenly all business, "would it offend you if I yelled at the landlord in your stead?"

"Are you actually going to yell?" she asked, more in interest than in concern.

"I intend to speak sternly but firmly, as if I have a dozen lawyers at my beck and call."

She considered that statement, and then crooked her finger in his direction. "Only if I can listen. Pencil and paper, please."

"You've memorized the number, haven't you?" he asked with fond amusement.

"Of course I have."

He waited until they were both through eating before picking up his phone, settling back in his chair as he dialed. Jemma found herself watching with almost gleeful interest. She made herself comfortable in her chair, placing her feet on the chair between them.

Amazingly, her landlord actually picked up, most likely because he didn't recognize the number.

"Hello, Mr. Jones," Phil said calmly, reaching out to lay a hand on hers. "We need to discuss a problem with your building."

* * *

She did stay another night. To Jemma's disappointment he did hold to his promise not to kiss her again, but the other little changes made up for it. A second snowball fight, a second round of hot chocolate. Casual touches against her back and hands as he sat beside her at the table or on the couch. He wasn't rushing this, that was for certain, but Jemma found that she rather liked the slow pace now that the matter was out in the open.

He did pull her into a hug after escorting her to her door, and she eagerly returned the embrace. "Thank you for a lovely Christmas," she murmured against his coat collar, feeling his breath against her hair. "I enjoyed it immensely."

"So did I." He pulled back slightly to meet her gaze. "And thank you for my gift."

Jemma frowned, confused. "I didn't give you a gift."

"Oh, but you did." He smiled, lifting a hand to brush back a strand of her hair. "Hope is a marvellous gift, Jemma."

She took a breath, warmth filling her from head to toe, and then on impulse pulled him down to her level and kissed him thoroughly.

"You only promised that _you_ wouldn't be kissing me," she informed him with giddiness, pleased at finding a loophole. "I never made any such promise."

His smile returned slowly, and it contained a delicious hint of wickedness. "You are absolutely correct. Trust me, I have no complaints."

Jemma returned his smile, leaning back against the doorframe and taking his hands in hers. "So," she said, unwilling to let the moment end. "What do we do now?"

"Well… perhaps you'll let me take you to breakfast tomorrow."

"I would like that."

"And maybe again on Monday, before the team meeting," he continued, his thumb stroking across her knuckles. "And I know that we're working on New Year's Eve, but perhaps you could be persuaded to use that loophole of yours at midnight?"

"I think the odds are very good." She took in a deep breath as his fingertips brushed against her inner wrist. "It's always best to start out the New Year with a bit of hope, isn't it?"

His smile deepened until it was warm and bright and everything she might ask for. "I think it's going to be a very good year."

* * *

Skye and Bobbi arrived within minutes of each other on Saturday night, the former with beer and the latter with several bags of Chinese food.

"Jemma!" Skye placed the beers on the table before flinging her arms around her. "Merry belated Christmas. Please tell me you did _something_ fun while we were gone."

"Oh, several things," Jemma replied vaguely, pulling out a stack of plates and several large spoons for the food. "How was Trip's family?"

"Loud and adorable," Skye answered, giving her an odd look. "Bobbi, don't you think she looks kind of… smug?"

"Yep. Spill it, Jem." Bobbi popped the cap off a beer and thrust it into Jemma's hands. "You look way too happy for someone who spent Christmas alone."

"Oh, I didn't," Jemma said as calmly as she could, resisting the urge to beam. "My heat went out on Christmas Eve. I ended up making alternate plans."

Bobbi and Skye exchanged a look. "Alternate plans?" Skye said, suspicious. "What kind of alternate plans?"

"Well," Jemma said slowly, "there I was, freezing on Christmas morning, and someone knocks at the door."

"Jemma, you are a tease. Spit it out."

"Phil came to check on me. He had come to invite me to dinner, but once he realized how cold my apartment was he invited me to stay the night instead." Jemma shrugged, trying not to laugh at how Skye's mouth had dropped open. "And it was very nice."

"How nice?" Skye crowded her against the counter. "Details, Simmons."

"Oh, we talked. And you know how good a cook he is." Jemma slid past Skye, taking a long sip on her beer to extend the moment. "Watched a few movies, had a snowball fight in the yard, kissed under the mistletoe. Your standard holiday festivities."

She grabbed a plate and began helping herself to the food. "And then we kissed a few more times, and now we're dating. Do you want any egg rolls, Bobbi?"

Bobbi began to laugh helplessly, leaning heavily against the wall. Skye, on the other hand, slapped her hands down onto the table, her expression utterly serious.

"Jemma Simmons," she said, "I am so fucking proud of you."

* * *

Jemma had never been courted before, but there was not a doubt in her mind that she had found herself in the middle of a courtship. She might have been the one to initiate this relationship, but Phil had thrown himself into it wholeheartedly. There were dinners and brunches and the occasional bouquet of flowers, and as winter began to shift to spring Jemma found herself sure of one very important fact: she was in love with Phil Coulson. Not a crush, not a fondness, but an overflowing of so much love and joy that she was hard-pressed to stay strictly professional at work.

Her certainty in her own feelings, however, highlighted something she feared was a problem.

His promise that he wouldn't kiss her again until she spent the night still held true. It had become a game, actually, in that he had become awfully good at teasing her until she finally pounced, claiming what she wanted. She would be a liar if she said that she no longer found the game fun or sexy, but it was true that as time went on, she often wished that he would just grab her and initiate a damn kiss already.

Hinting that she was ready to go to bed with him didn't help. He evaded the hints so gently she was seriously beginning to wonder _why_. It wasn't a medical issue, or at least not the obvious one; more than once she had felt the evidence of his arousal between them.

Which meant, she supposed, that it was something about her. About them.

Or something about Audrey.

Audrey had never lived in his Boston home, which helped, in an odd way. Still, there was the china, and a smattering of pictures, and there were books and movies on Phil's shelves that struck her as being out of place. Audrey was a quiet presence in Phil's home, and Jemma hated herself for feeling jealous of a woman long-dead and in the grave.

And so Jemma went, round and round throughout the month of March, until one rainy evening when she decided it was time to simply ask.

They were both on his couch, her legs draped over his lap, their attention theoretically on the movie playing on the television. Her attention was shot, of course, but he seemed to actually be following the plot.

"Phil?" she began quietly, and she knew in the way his gaze immediately shifted that his concentration had not been as firmly on the film as she had thought. "Could we discuss something?"

He reached for the remote and hit the pause button without protest. "Of course." He actually looked a bit worried by her words. "About anything."

"I was just wondering," she said slowly, forcing herself to keep his gaze and not stare down at her hands, "why we haven't had sex yet."

"Ah." One of his hands settled lightly against her knee, warm even through the denim of her jeans. "To be honest, Jemma, I haven't been with anyone since Audrey died. I… I stopped wanting that kind of intimacy for a while, afterward."

"Right," she said with a blush and a nod, unsure why those words made her want to cry. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry."

"No, that's a question you get to ask." His free arm encircled her shoulders, pulling her a little closer. "Believe me, I'm looking forward to exploring all kinds of intimate acts with you." His smile was tender, a little teasing. "I just need to work through a few things, first."

He gave her a look of such understanding that she immediately relaxed. "I'm not pining for my dead wife, if that bothers you," he said in a quiet voice, his hand tightening slightly around her knee. "Trust me, Jemma, you're not here as an easy substitute. I love you for everything you are."

"You love me?" she asked, hearing the wonderment in her voice and feeling as if a weight had been lifted.

Leaning in until his lips were centimeters from her own, he said, "I love you very much, Jemma."

"And I love you." She brushed away a happy tear, grinning. "But you still aren't going to kiss me," she teased.

"That would be breaking the rules."

"Sod the rules," she declared, and tugged him closer to claim the kiss that they both wanted.

* * *

"Finally," Jemma said with satisfaction one April morning, adjusting the long-awaited Peggy Carter hat on her head and trying to decide if she needed a tad more lipstick or not. She spotted Phil in the mirror and smiled, turning to face him. "Will I suit?" she asked. "I was beginning to think no one would ever schedule a Howling Commandos party again. I'm a little bit nervous for my debut."

"You look perfect." He gestured for her to turn, watching her fondly. "Though there is one thing."

She stared down at herself, frowning. "What?"

"Your seams."

To her shock and pleasure, he knelt behind her. "If I may," he added when she twisted to look at him, not moving his hands toward her until she nodded.

His hands moved carefully upward, thumbs nudging the seam of her stockings into place over her calf, then the back of her knee, where he paused. "Jemma?"

It was becoming rather hard to breathe in this small dressing room. "If it's not straight at the top they'll just twist again," she pointed out. "You should be thorough."

She edged up the skirt of her blue suit until the hem cleared mid-thigh, where her stockings clipped to her garter belt. That particular bit of her outfit was most definitely not a uniform requirement.

He adjusted the top of one stocking before starting the next, his warm breath teasing the back of her thighs. "As much as I'm enjoying this," she said, "I can't help but think that this isn't appropriate pre-party prep."

"It isn't," he agreed in a low voice, making a last adjustment to her stockings before tugging lightly at the hem of her skirt until she dropped it. "Would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to bring a bag?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Good." He stood, brushing dust off of his knees. "Thank you, Jemma." He gave her another once-over before taking her hand and pressing it against his cheek. "You are an excellent Peggy Carter."

* * *

When she rang his doorbell, she knew that she was overdressed for a dinner at home. The red dress, the heels… and underneath, the carefully washed seamed stockings and garter belt set. If her lace underwear didn't knock him off his feet, she would cook Sif an entire turkey.

The look in his eyes when he opened the door made the effort worth it. He ushered her in, held out a hand for her bag, and then in one quick motion pulled her against him and delivered a kiss that had been worth the wait. She was pressed between him and the wall by the time he let go, which was good, because her knees were more than a little weak.

"You really made me wait for that," she said breathlessly, arms still around his neck. "You should do that again."

"If I do that again dinner will be postponed." He licked his lips, looking both tempting and tempted. "You're wearing the stockings."

"I thought you would want to inspect them in a more appropriate setting." She leaned in slightly. "Postpone dinner."

He stepped back, took her hand, and led her to his bedroom, where he shut the door against a curious Sif.

"It's been a while," he warned her, cupping her cheek in one hand. "I might be out of practice."

"So am I. We'll work it out together." She reached forward and began unbuttoning his shirt, keeping her eyes on his. "I've been waiting for this for a very long time."

"Oh, I know." His hand slid from her cheek, tracing a path down over the side of her neck and the curve of one shoulder before reached for the zipper at her back. "You've been so very patient, love. I'll make it worth your while."

Her dress, once unzipped, needed no encouragement to drop to the floor. She stepped out of it, her neat nature compelling her to bend over and pick it up.

His slight gasp reminded her of the kind of picture she was presenting, and she looked up at him, stilling her movements. "Like the view, do you?"

"Very much." His hands came to rest lightly on her hips, and standing as he was behind her she was intensely aware of how erotic the position was. His fingertips brushed over lace, over skin, then grasped tightly when her shaking legs nearly sent her tumbling to the floor.

"Perhaps not in heels," she told him in a murmur after he had pulled her up against him, one of his hands low on her belly.

"Pity." His breathing was ragged against her ear. "But you're right. Take them off."

His hands were firm against her skin as he turned her to face him, and she had a bare second to marvel at the hungry look on his face before they were kissing again, Jemma rising to her toes to get as close as possible.

She tightened her hold on him instinctively when he picked her up, carrying her toward the bed with obvious intent. "This isn't what I expected," she commented once she had caught her breath, reclining against the sheets as he hovered above her, still fully dressed. It wasn't said in complaint, and she added a teasing smile to accompany her next words, in order to assure him. "Where is my gentle romantic?"

"I'll love you by candlelight next time, Jemma," he said in promise, brushing his hands up her inner thighs. "I've spent too much time thinking about you here, like this… so very beautiful. I've made plans."

Jemma had no intention of denying him any portion of those plans. "Do those plans involve you taking off your clothes?"

"Eventually." He bent and placed a kiss against the side of one knee, his tongue darting out to tease her skin through the silk of her stockings. "I've been keeping count, you see."

"Of what?"

"Of every kiss I wanted to initiate and failed to give you." He lifted a finger solemnly, a glimmer of a smile on his lips. "That was number one."

The second kiss fell against her inner thigh, the third against the skin of her stomach, the fourth against the dip of her waist.

"Just how many kisses have you held back?" she asked as she squirmed slightly underneath him, beginning to understand that she had acquired a marvellous tease for a lover. "Fifty?"

"Three-hundred and forty-one," he told her calmly, the tone at complete odds with the fervent expression on his face. "Dinner," he informed her, "will be very late."

* * *

The caress down the length of her spine broke her from a light doze, causing her to turn her head and blink sleepily in Phil's direction. "Hmmm?"

"I haven't even fed you," he said with a gentle smile, still running his hand up and down her back. "You can't go to sleep quite yet."

"You've worked me into exhaustion," she replied with a yawn, reaching out to tap a finger gently against his nose. "Though you did warn me early on that you were a tyrant… but I thought that was only in the sick room."

"But you enjoyed yourself?"

She smiled slowly, in satisfaction. "Oh, yes."

"Good."

He moved forward and pressed a kiss against her forehead, the hand on her back lingering low at the base of her spine. "I'll bring dinner to you," he said, "but you have to promise to stay awake."

"I believe I can do that, at least for a little bit."

She watched with what she suspected was a foolish smile as he pulled on a robe and left the room, leaving the door open behind him. Sif slipped in seconds later, jumping up onto the bed and settling neatly on the very edge, staring down at Jemma with feline hauteur.

"Three-hundred and forty-one," Jemma told the cat, remembering those kisses with a delicious shiver. "I'm afraid I'll be claiming all mistletoe kisses for the foreseeable future."

Sif sneezed, and then sauntered forward. After butting her head against Jemma's shoulder she took possession of one of the pillows, stretching out regally and flexing her unsheathed claws against the pillowcase as if in threat.

But then she yawned, relaxing into long-limbed feline slumber.

And Jemma, promises to the contrary, followed suit with a smile.


	4. epilogue: don't forget I love you

Christmas Eve dinner was interrupted at the tail-end by a call from her parents, causing the both of them to sigh in concert. She reached for the phone, giving Phil an apologetic look. "Hello Mum," Jemma said brightly, relaxing as Phil's hand covered her free one. "No, I didn't change my mind and hop on a flight," she said lightly before her mother could even ask. "Phil and I have plans."

"Plans that don't involve your family, I know," her mother said, sighing a tad dramatically. "You're going to have to bring him to meet us, Jemma. You know we can't afford to drag the whole family overseas just to meet this man."

Jemma personally thought it would be worth crossing several oceans just to meet Phil, but she acknowledged that she was biased in this matter. "Hopefully someday soon, Mum. Has Eloise arrived yet with her new baby?" she asked, hoping to change the subject. "Your first Christmas as a grandmum must be very exciting."

"Your father has a cold, and Ely didn't want to expose the baby to the germs," her mother told her in dissatisfaction. "Is your new job still going well, then? It was about time you took up something respectable."

Phil had evidently heard that bit, because his brows shot up in surprise. After a moment he grinned, finding some kind of humor in the comment.

"Yes, I'm still enjoying the academy." Jemma watched as Phil stood and began clearing the table, taking away her plate. "Mum, I need to go, all right? We're in the middle of dinner."

One of the plates in Phil's hands tilted slightly, sending a small slice of roast beef onto the floor. Sif streaked past, pouncing on it and galloping away before Jemma could do more than blink.

"Yes, you're always so busy. You'll call tomorrow, Jemma? We hardly hear from you anymore, and there are things to discuss."

"Of course we'll call tomorrow," Jemma replied sweetly, placing slight emphasis on the plural first person. "I'll put you on speaker-phone so that you can talk with Phil. It will be lovely."

And it would keep awkward requests to a minimum. Even her parents were too polite to discuss money in front of a relative stranger.

Her mother bid her farewell, sounding rather displeased. Jemma put down her phone with a sigh before picking up her half-full glass of wine. "We'll have to visit them eventually," she said glumly, watching as he shrugged.

"But not this year," he said practically as he rinsed the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher.

"I'm afraid they'll scare you off."

"I'm pretty hard to scare." He dried off his hands before coming back over to the table. "But a more pleasant matter is at hand," he said, a note of mischief in his voice. "Any interest in kissing under the mistletoe?"

She laughed. "Yes, that does sound far more pleasant."

When she stood he picked her up, startling another laugh out of her.

"Phil, you walked past it," she pointed out when they passed under the mistletoe in the kitchen and he kept going down the hall. "What are you up to?"

In answer he strode into his bedroom and dropped her onto the bed, pointing upward once he had his arms free. "Mistletoe," he said in explanation, and she began laughing anew when she saw the small bundle overhead. "I can't have you bumping your head against the wall again. This is much safer."

"And much more efficient," she agreed, holding out her arms. "Come here."

Yes, Jemma decided. The best mistletoe kissing definitely happened _without_ clothing. Judging by Phil's enthusiasm, he was in complete agreement.

But then, he was always enthusiastic whenever they tumbled into bed together- and so was she. Because he was creative, as she had guessed, and very, very dedicated to finding every square inch of her body that made her moan.

And make her moan he did, over and over until they collapsed in a tangle against the sheets, struggling to catch their breath.

"And what would you like for Christmas this year?" he asked in a murmur a few minutes later, pressing a kiss to her shoulder blade. He had been asking that question for nearly a month, and she had given him a different playful answer every time… but not tonight.

She stretched against the sheets, feeling pleasantly languorous and well-loved. "Hmmm." She turned onto her back and peeked up at him, considering the moment. He was watching her with a look of similar satisfaction, his hair mussed and gaze sleepy. Yes, this was her moment.

Jemma rolled away toward the edge of the bed, catching a glimpse of his startled expression as she ran lightly down the hall and into the living room, making a bee-line for her purse.

"Jemma?" he called after her in confusion, but before he could come after her she was back in the bedroom, jumping onto the mattress beside him.

"I know exactly what I want for Christmas," she told him, a bit out of breath, though it was more from excitement than anything else. He was smiling again, looking both relieved and amused, as if he expected her to show him a picture of some microscope on her phone.

"And what would you like to find under the tree tomorrow?"

She smirked at the image he had unknowingly placed in her mind. After making herself comfortable on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, she carefully placed the small box she had kept hidden in the curve of her palm onto the sheets between them, cracking open the top to reveal a gleam of gold. "A husband?"

He froze, eyes fixed on the ring. He barely even seemed to breathe.

Just as she was beginning to panic, slightly, he lifted his eyes to meet hers, his looking suspiciously teary. "You stole the march on me, Jemma."

Not what every woman wanted to hear when proposing. "Excuse me?"

"Your ring is under the tree."

She began laughing in relief, scrambling to cover the foot or so of distance that had separated them. She almost forgot the ring box until it dug into her ribs, causing her to pull it out from beneath her and place it on his chest. "You can still propose," she told him when his arms closed around her, looking as if he were intent on kissing her very thoroughly. "In fact, you should."

"You want me on bended knee on Christmas morning?" he asked rhetorically, appearing to be musing over something more wicked than a marriage proposal. "That does sound enjoyable."

She kissed him at that, shivering at the promise he had all but voiced aloud.

Considerably more mussed than she had been- which had taken some doing, considering her state beforehand- she leaned back against the pillows a few minutes later, watching as he slid the ring onto the appropriate finger. A perfect fit.

Feeling a tinge of mischievousness, she glanced at him with feigned innocence. "We'll have to remember to close the curtains on Christmas morning. At least for the proposal."

One of his hands closed around her ankle as he watched her, his fingers stroking her skin. "Worried the neighbors will be scandalized by a marriage proposal, sweetheart?" he asked, a smile curving his lips. "I'm pretty sure that a good number of them are… married."

"No. It's just that I ran past several uncovered windows in my haste to get your ring, so I feel as if they've gotten enough of a show already."

"Ah." He continued stroking her ankle, his gaze sweeping slowly over her. "You make an excellent point. Enough of a show for a lifetime, perhaps."

"Preferably." She smiled at him, dropping the act. "I was too excited about proposing to care."

"You've certainly made my year, Jemma." He lay down beside her, trailing one hand down her side and over the curve of her hip. "I'm not sure you'll be able to top this, next Christmas."

She tucked herself more firmly against his side, her smile turning thoughtful. "Next Christmas?" she murmured. "I'm sure I can think of _something_."


End file.
